


On the Same Page

by Gwyn_Paige



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Acephobia, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23618701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyn_Paige/pseuds/Gwyn_Paige
Summary: Jon takes another breath. He can’t bear to look at Martin’s face as he says it; he fixes his gaze on the far corner bedpost instead. “I . . . don’t want to have sex with you. I don’t want to have sex with anyone.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 96
Kudos: 860
Collections: Aspec Martin Blackwood Week, Repulsed/Averse Ace Jon Archivist, tma fics





	On the Same Page

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this is just me shamelessly projecting onto Jon, who is asexual and biromantic just like me. There are some slight mentions of acephobia, but only in the very beginning, and they're not too bad. Most of it is internalized, because again, I am projecting.
> 
> I hope all of my fellow aces reading this find it cathartic, in some way. It was really cathartic to write, so I can only hope y'all get something good out of it too.
> 
> Just for reference, [this](https://sabattons.tumblr.com/post/614609376516472832/the-archivist) is what I imagine Jon looking like, and [this](https://two-nipples-maybe-more.tumblr.com/post/613841689923223552/quarantining-and-waiting-for-s5-be-like-draws-a) is how I imagine Martin. Obviously you don't have to picture them any specific way, but those links will take you to some fantastic fanart, if you're at all interested.

The first time they share a bed after everything is made . . . official, as much as confessing one’s feelings can be called _official_ , Jon braces himself. It’s a familiar feeling; he’s done this sort of mental preparation several times before. There’s always a tensing of anticipation in his gut, a queasy, disquieting feeling that he wishes he could just swallow down—but it’s never that easy. He rehearses the speech in his head, always a little different from the time before, and somehow it’s always awkward and hesitant. He doesn’t think he’ll ever figure out a way to say it right, confidently and eloquently, with all the nuance of a really good statement. Perhaps there is no way.

It is, he thinks as he watches Martin close the bathroom door behind him, honestly sort of ridiculous. It’s a little bit ridiculous at the best of times, but now, with everything that’s happened to them—saving one another, hiding away together, monsters in every doorway, eyes in every window—now, it’s such a small thing, in the grand scheme of it all.

The twisting in his gut, intense as ever, seems to disagree. Funny, how fear works.

As he sits on the bed to wait, Jon tries to anticipate all of the questions. He’s coming in with a lifetime supply, after all: _That’s really a thing? Are you not attracted to me? Have you even tried it before? Do you just not feel anything? Why’d you even bother to ask me out? Have you considered seeing someone about it? Do you even care about me at all?_

His head buzzes with words and memories, some nicer than others. Georgie had been understanding, an absolute sport about it, really, and she hadn’t even blinked when he’d told her. She’d always been unflappable, Georgie. In retrospect, she was the only one who’d had the courtesy to never bring the matter up again.

He hears the bathroom door open again, and turns to see Martin, wearing the sweatpants and old T-shirt that he’d thrown into his bag to use as pajamas. His hair is freshly dried, which Jon has learned makes it puff up like a lion’s mane. Everything about him is so gentle, and soft, and warm. Jon wants to hold him, to be held by him, to feel the seemingly infinite warmth and care of Martin’s arms around him, to bury his nose in Martin’s hair. He wants the both of them to hold each other until they get tired of it, and then he wants them to fall asleep like that. Together. Close.

That would be so, so much more than enough for Jon. But for Martin . . . he’s not sure. He’s never really been sure, with anyone: would that be enough for _them_?

Martin gives Jon a smile, perfectly at ease, perfectly sure. Jon tries to smile back, but he’s afraid it comes out looking strangled and wrong. _God_ , he shouldn’t be this nervous. It’s Martin, after all.

Oh, god, but it’s Martin. Jon doesn’t think he could stand seeing Martin’s face crumple with that familiar mix of confusion and disappointment when he finally tells him. And if, like so many times before, it’s a dealbreaker, Jon can’t just walk away and block Martin’s number and try not to think about him ever again. For better or worse, they’re stuck together. They’ll have to deal with the fallout somehow.

Even putting aside all of that, even if they were two completely ordinary people living two completely ordinary lives, Jon doesn’t want to let Martin go. He likes Martin. A lot. And he cannot afford to screw this up.

“Jon?” Martin’s hand is on his arm, gently squeezing, like he does when Jon is distracted by Seeing. This time, it just brings him back from inside his own head. “You alright?”

He realizes, dimly, that Martin is already sitting next to him in the bed, covers drawn over his legs, settling against the pillows, smiling contentedly as though this was just like all the other times they’d shared a bed. Another jab of anxiety hits the pit of Jon’s stomach. He’s not ready to lose that smile, or the soft, reassuring weight of the hand on his arm.

“Fine,” Jon says.

“Are you going to . . . actually get under the covers anytime soon?”

Jon nods curtly. “Eventually. Yes.” But he makes no move for the blanket.

Martin sighs and sits up. Jon feels his stomach sink. Here it comes. “Jon, if you don’t want to share a bed anymore, if it’s too . . . weird, now, we don’t have to. If it’s uncomfortable for you. It’s fine.” He says it gently, considerately, but Jon’s skin prickles anyway.

“No, it’s . . . it’s not that.” He puts his head in his hands, takes a deep breath. When he comes back up, he feels marginally steadier. “I’m fine with sharing a bed. I’m fine with kissing. I’m fine with—being with you. All of that is fine. More than fine. It’s—good, Martin, it’s really good.” He tries for a smile again, wanting to reassure, but he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Martin is blinking slowly at him, but says nothing. His hand is still on his arm, gently squeezing. Almost ridiculously, Jon briefly thinks of the Buried, and an anchor.

Jon takes another breath. He can’t bear to look at Martin’s face as he says it; he fixes his gaze on the far corner bedpost instead. “I . . . don’t want to have sex with you. I don’t want to have sex with anyone. I l— _like_ you, a lot, and I want to be in a romantic relationship with you. But I don’t feel sexually attracted to you, or anyone else. It’s not your fault, it’s nothing wrong with you, Martin, it’s just me. It’s just the way I am. And I—I understand, completely, if you can’t, ah, if you can’t deal with that. If that’s not what you signed up for. And I don’t want to give you some kind of—ultimatum, but I just . . . I thought it’d be best to get it out of the way now. Before anything . . . starts.”

His words trail off, lamely, and he can’t bring himself to look at Martin. He doesn’t want to see the expression he might be making.

“You’re asexual?” Martin says, again, very gently. Something in Jon’s chest loosens. He knows the word for it, at least. That’s something.

Jon nods, faking a casual shrug. “That’s me,” he says lightly, trying for levity, but he just sounds miserable.

“You could have just said so,” Martin says, not unkindly, his warm hand gently rubbing his arm. “Jon. Look at me?”

It’s the question that does it. The little uplift in Martin’s voice on a sentence that shouldn’t have one. The gentlest of requests. Jon looks at him, and his stomach drops, because Martin is smiling. Really, properly smiling, like Jon’s somehow managed to set the whole world right again in the last five minutes.

“I’ve never been a huge fan,” Martin says before Jon can get a word in. “Of sex, that is. I mean, I don’t _hate_ it, obviously, I’ve had it more than once. I’ve never really had a _bad_ experience. Sometimes it’s nice, you know, for a lark. Something to do, I guess, if the other person wants it. Always nice to see them happy. But for me, personally, I could take it or leave it.”

It’s Jon’s turn to blink wordlessly. Martin’s moved closer to him on the bed, and the hand that isn’t resting warmly on his arm is combing almost absentmindedly through a long string of Jon’s hair that’s fallen over his shoulder. Martin’s brilliant smile has faded and changed into something resolute. He’s gorgeous, Jon realizes suddenly, in a way he’s never seen before. Martin’s always been handsome, but right now he is absolutely devastating.

“The _correct_ answer I could give you, I suppose,” says Martin, as he winds his fingers through Jon’s greying, unbrushed hair as though it’s silk, “would be that it doesn’t matter to me. I can deal with it. You stay in your corner, I stay in mine. We make it work, we figure it out. We compromise.” Martin’s eyes are bright, and suddenly very close to Jon’s. “But I don’t want that. I don’t want to have to meet you halfway. I want to meet you in the _center_ , right where you are, I want to—Jon, I want to _be here_ with you. I want—I want—I want our Venn diagrams to make a bloody _circle_.” Suddenly Martin seems to almost deflate, leaning his cheek against the pillows. “Am I making any sense at all?”

Jon stares at him. He feels—he’s not sure what he feels right now. The weight in his stomach has gotten lighter. Martin’s hand is resting on his chest now, near his heart, and it’s so warm. He’s probably the loveliest person Jon’s ever seen. “Yes,” Jon says, slowly, “I think I know what you mean.”

“I’m sorry if I’m being—intense about this. I just—I feel like we’re . . . we’re on the same page. And I’ve never had that before, with anyone.” Martin is looking at him entreatingly now, as if Jon needs any more convincing. As if Jon isn’t already figuratively, if not physically, falling into his arms. “You’re _brilliant_ , Jon, you really are, and I would’ve wanted to be with you anyway, of _course_ I would have. But this is . . . just. Just really good to hear.”

Martin gives him another smile, smaller than the one before, but hopeful, and Jon feels himself melt, feels the relief and the warmth and sheer gravity take over as he leans into Martin, arms falling into place around his middle, chin tucked over his shoulder, nose burrowed in the pillow of his hair. Almost as though he’d been waiting for it, Martin catches him, and they’ve hugged enough times by now that Jon knows what it will feel like, but it’s still wonderful, every time. Jon has learned that Martin loves with his whole body, with all his strength, and he can feel it now more than ever. He tries to give the same to Martin. He’s more angular, more awkward, less adept at physical expressions of affection, but he tries. _I love you,_ he thinks, hard. _Can you tell? Do I have to say it?_

A moment goes by as they both lie in each other’s arms, perfectly still except for their breathing, until Jon feels Martin’s lips brush against his cheek, an afterthought of a kiss. It’s so tender that it almost hurts. Jon turns his head and presses a kiss to Martin’s temple, long and deliberate, less gentle than perhaps it could have been. Martin didn’t need gentleness, not in that way. He ought to be loved with a strength equal to what he gave.

“I’ve never been on the same page with anyone, either,” Jon says quietly, breaking the silence. “Not really. Some of them tried, but it wasn’t the same. I always felt like there was something they wanted that I couldn’t give.”

He feels Martin’s hand brush through the tangled mess of his hair, warm and solid against the back of his neck. He breathes, and feels himself smile against Martin’s forehead. “But this is . . . you’re . . . well. I’m glad, is all I can say.”

Martin laughs softly, his breath warm against Jon’s shoulder. He pulls back slightly, and Jon is once again bowled over by his smile. He looks so utterly content, and for a moment Jon cannot fathom why, until he feels Martin’s lips pressing against his, and it all becomes extremely, wonderfully clear.

They only kiss for a moment, just long enough for them to both be short of breath, and then Jon reaches to find one of Martin’s hands where it rests on the blanket. Misunderstanding, Martin begins to lace their fingers together, but instead Jon lifts his hand to his lips and presses a kiss into his palm.

Martin laughs nervously, almost a giggle, saying, “Jon, you don’t have to—You’re being ridiculous—”

“You’ve got nice hands,” Jon says plainly, because it’s true. They’re broad and calloused and warm. Still, he lets Martin’s hand go, and kisses his cheek instead.

“ _God_ , if I knew you’d be like this, I never would’ve said anything,” says Martin, but he leans into the kiss anyway. “You’ve got nice hands too, you know,” he says absentmindedly.

“ _One_ nice hand,” Jon says, voice muffled against Martin’s shoulder. He holds up his good hand for Martin to lavish with attention, if that’s what he wants.

But he feels Martin take his right hand instead, the burned one, with its deep, pale scars still plainly visible. It doesn’t often hurt anymore, but the texture of the scars is smooth in a way the rest of his skin is not, and Jon can’t imagine it’s pleasant to the touch.

Yet Martin holds it, and gently, so as not to irritate them, he kisses the old burns, once, twice, three times, before letting go.

“Now you’re being ridiculous,” Jon mutters, without heat. He leans back against his pillow, somewhat drained, and Martin does the same. Between them, their hands are still twined together. Their foreheads are almost touching.

Jon wants to thank him. He has no reason to, he knows. He shouldn’t be grateful for someone’s mere understanding. But his relief needs somewhere to go, and he can only pour it out through kisses for so long. _So use your words,_ he tells himself. _The right ones, this time. Be truthful. Take a bit of your own medicine._ He closes his eyes, and takes a breath, and—

“I love you,” says Martin.

Jon doesn’t open his eyes for a moment. He feels, bizarrely, safe in the immediate darkness behind his eyelids. He feels Martin’s thumb gently stroking his scarred hand, and the warmth of his breath on his nose. He imagines Martin’s face in that moment: kind, open, slightly worried. Jon almost smiles. Martin has nothing to worry about. Not here. Not in their bed.

He opens his eyes. He’d been preparing to make some kind of reply, some assurance or affirmation, but it all flies straight out of his head when he sees Martin’s face again.

Kind and open, yes, as always. Worried, definitely. But also loving. Adoring.

He looks exactly how Jon feels.

“I love you too,” Jon says, almost at once. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it earlier. It’s been true for a long time, now. Please, can I—”

But Martin is already folding him into another embrace, which Jon gladly accepts, and then stubbornly tries to get on the outside of. “Damn it, Martin,” he says, and he hears the laughter in his own voice as though it’s someone else’s—how long has it been since he laughed? “I’m trying to hug _you_ this time.”

“I said it first,” Martin says, whose voice sounds just this side of choked, as though he’s trying not to cry. “I get the first hug.”

Jon finally manages to get his arms around Martin’s middle, and tugs him close. “That makes no sense.”

“I know. I know.” Martin’s laughing now, too, and for a moment the only thing they do is lie there and hold each other and laugh. For a moment, the only thing they think about is how utterly ridiculous the other one is being. How utterly ridiculous they both are.

And then the laughter dies down, and the moment ends, and the world is no longer just the two of them, lying in a bed, somewhere far away. Martin is still in Jon’s arms, though, and that alone is something incredible.

“We should sleep,” Martin says, but he makes no move to turn off the lamp on the bedside table.

“Yes,” Jon agrees. His eyelids are already heavy, and the light doesn’t bother him. He could just fall asleep right here, holding Martin’s warmth close, their legs tangled and foreheads pressed together—why not?

“The blanket,” Martin says, as though in answer. Jon feels him shift in his arms, feels him reach a hand over Jon’s hip, grip the corner of the blanket and pull it over Jon, tucking them both in together. It is not the first time they have shared the blanket, but it feels now more than ever like a confirmation, the blanket enfolding them together so that anyone who saw might think of them as one being, holding itself, hiding from the world underneath a thin sheet of cloth. It is no defense at all, Jon knows, but it is, for anyone who might care to hear it, a declaration.

In the end, of course, they forget about the lamp. Despite its glow, they sleep without stirring, and Jon wakes the next morning with Martin’s hand in his, steady and warm.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
